


Vacancy Savings

by HerdOfTurtles



Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, England is having a bad time, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective America (Hetalia), Rescue, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerdOfTurtles/pseuds/HerdOfTurtles
Summary: England wakes up confused and alone, unable to remember the circumstances that led to his situation.Written for Whumptober 2020, prompt: Rescue
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), England & Russia (Hetalia)
Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949041
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Vacancy Savings

**Author's Note:**

> lmaoooo this is actually a fic I wrote last year. It was unfinished so I decided to just slap on the 'rescue' at the end to make it work for Wumptober. ENjoy my laziness. (at least I skimmed over the old part for spelling errors before posting. Grammar is up for scrutiny though.)

It had been... ten-ish minutes? Twelve? Mn.... no... why did it matter again? Everything was too foggy and the world was spinning a bit faster than it should have been. It had been some unknown amount of time. That was correct. Unknown time passed since he woke to the pitch black room tied and bound, but he wasn't worried yet. He wasn't worried at all. No mind that Arthur should be worried that he wasn't worried. He maybe should be worried about the grogginess making him... hm... heavy. Blurry? Maybe it was cold. Why was this bad again? Arthur's brows furrowed hopelessly as his thoughts slipped out of his head and into thin air. Five seconds later he frowned. There was a vague idea that something might have been important, but he was far too heavy to think. It was like a ghost of a thought skittering around his mind.

Heh... Arthur smiled at that. America didn't like ghosts, especially the TV ones. 

Arthur's eyes brightened and a brief smile tugged his features. Alfred was with him! He was certain. He wasn't alone. 

He scanned the fuzzy room, studying the blurry shapes in the dark while his head throbbed. He couldn't see a thing. The impulse to call out for someone crawled up his throat, and there was an ungraceful lull of his tongue as he attempted to make a sound. 

"Hnng..." his mouth was numb and so was his face and fingers and everything aside from the tingling. Sharp, tiny jabs across his skin. England huffed in annoyance and confusion. Should he try moving instead? Surely that would work. His arm flopped uselessly, and England found the appendage stiff. The uselessness made his face fall into more confusion.

There was no Alfred. Why was there no Alfred? He was certain there was an Alfred. 

Damn he couldn't think... why had he been looking for Alfred?

The room was dark and bending... but that didn't seem right. The room was spinning lazily and England was tilting with it.

Was he drunk?

England tried his best to focus, pinching his face in deep thought. Trying to think. He couldn't think well for some reason and it was very annoying. Why couldn't he think well? Several things weren't adding up to his muddled brain and it was making him nervous.

The darkness spun, making webs and cracks in his thoughts, and each murmur of information in his mind slipped out like water through cracks in a cup. It was only when the haze began to slightly lift that a light split the dark burned England's eyes. 

England, still confused, had a delayed reaction to the blindingly bright warm light and spent a bit of time processing the pain in his eyes before closing them and groaning to express his discomfort. He leaned away from the source, but it didn't do much to help.

"England! Как ты? It has been a while since you visited." 

England opened an eye, baffled. Russia? Yes... that was Russian. Perfect Russian and England could understand most of it. 

"...I... visit'd? Why'd I do that... don't like yeh much..." Russia didn't lie much, did he? Drat he couldn't tell. He could never read the Russian. It also appeared he still couldn't speak properly. His well learned accent was loose, unprofessional. "Hmn... sor'y bout, 'M ah bit fuzzy..."

"Да, I know. It's supposed to be that way." Russia sounded cheerful today. That was good. It was also good that Russia seemed to know what was going on, too. "Are you well? Как поживаешь?"

He had to think for a bit. Was he? He didn't remember much of what was going on. Last he could think, he was still fixing London and Manchester, because despite best efforts to be otherwise, the cities were still damaged and in piles of rubble. But he was rebuilding, and the war had been over for a good while now.

"Think so?" The words came out more question than statement, but Russia was grinning, so that was good. Why wasn't he afraid... something inside him nagged and whispered he should be afraid, but he wasn't feeling much at all. He actually felt fuzzy... a bit warm. Comforted.

"That is great to hear, Англия!" Russia leaned in close and England didn't move. England wondered if he'd ever been this close to the Russian. Close enough to smell vodka, to see darkened stains on the cloth around his neck, and the unsettling shine in his purple gaze. Frustration bubbled in him when Russia began to spin with the room and he still couldn't focus. "I have simple questions for you. Всего несколько. You will answer them fast I believe."

"Okay..." England murmured. 

"Tell me about America." Russia patted his arm, giving him a soft smile. England's low power brain recalled that America was supposed to be with him.

"Huh...why's... why's amer'ca not here?" England's head limply lifted to scan the room, reinvigorated in his seach. If America was here he would be able to hear him talking. He couldn't hear America talking, so America must still not be here.

"He couldn't come today, that's why I'm asking you. What do you know about him?" Russia's patient, calm demeanor lulled him back to the conversation at hand. It made sense... England couldn't hear America so he must not be coming.

"... yeah. He's reaaaaallly ima- immature- petty. Yeah. Juss like him, not show'n up." 

The smile on Russia's face dimmed a fraction. Then in a flash it was gone, and England couldn't tell if it was the spinning room playing tricks on him or not.

"I know. But I want to know what you know about him. Likes, dislikes... what do you talk about with him, hm? "

"... how muchve a twat he is." That was his clearest sentence yet.

"Hmm... you named him, Да? Ты дал ему его человеческое имя?" England has no clue what the second half of that sentence meant, but he's pretty sure Russia did that on purpose. It was odd that Russia was so insistent on speaking Russian to him when he didn't know near enough to participate in a full sophisticated conversation, so England simply huffed in annoyance. That was what America was for... America knew Russian. So why was the Russian asking him? If he didn't understand what Russia was saying, how was he expected to talk with the Russian? But maybe he was expected to know, but thinking was just too hard when his brain didn't want to work. England decided to answer the part he understood before he forgot it and the words slipped away like America did.

"Half've it." 

"Half of his name?" Confusion fluttered in Russia's eyes and England decided to clarify.

"Last name wasn good enough," His hand waved like a waterlogged rag, "made up one... claims it's much better. It'sa dumb name."

"Ah." Russia nodded. Russia, with his grey, pale chin resting in his palm while wearing a contemplative wrinkle under his eye. He looked less murderous and more thoughtful-- albeit a bit dead outside. England was finding it nice to be listened too, though. Russia looked genuinely interested... how long had it been since someone genuinely asked him something? Or since someone wanted him to share his knowledge? Why did he not like Russia again? The Russian smiled and leaned back, and England found the look almost twisted. It was a sweet, innocent grin... but he began to feel uneasy. 

Russia spoke again, softer this time, "So what did he change it to?"

Something in Russia's aura changed and England felt a shiver run down his spine, then paranoia's cold, frost tipped fingers dipped into his heart. Too cold. It was ice in his warm fuzzy body, freezing and killing the blood and flesh encasing the winter.

"Thas personal..." England narrowed his spinning gaze and tried to shuffle back, but found he couldn't.

Those pale fingers steepled to a dangerous point and the grey world around him sharpened. Slow, sinking slices of reality, all in shreds, dripping forward from that horrid smirk sitting across from him. Danger. Danger that's what this was. The haze began to lift and the world was cramped and closing in. He's trapped. He's laced between Russia's fingers in a cage, arms tied tight in bounds. 

England caught his breath. The fuzzy thoughts began to melt away and all he could think of was _escape_ he had to _escape._ Even if the word was spinning and Russia probably had him drugged he had to do whatever it took to slip away.

"Do not struggle so much, England." A heavy sigh paralysed him with frozen, ice-like fear. Russia, insane, powerful, and so _so_ much stronger than England and his crumbling empire had the final say-- and Russia knew it, with that small smile and gleam of glee in his eye. "I think you need some more encouragement."

Silver shined luridly in the dark, and England was suddenly frighteningly aware of the needle clutched in Russia's fingers, descending closer to his trapped self.

"Wait! Don't-"

"I do not wish to hurt you. Просто расслабиться, my quarrel is with your ally, not you. Just tell me what I ask." That calm, disturbing, face watched him, smiling softly. The worst part of it all was Russia's sincerity. The Russian wasn't lying. 

"I... I can't do that. He's my ally!"

"Then do not complain." The needle sunk in, and England could do nothing as the warmth sunk back in with it. The haze closed in so fast, it overtook his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to grip them-- they slithered away, soft without a sound, before he had a chance to try and fight. As his arms relaxed the only thing left was a fleeting notion that he had to remember something. 

He was too warm and dizzy when Russia drilled him again, asking for America's name. And it was too warm and fuzzy as England responded with confusion. England had it deeply ingrained in his psyche that nothing be shared in this modern era... any personal information was under lock and key, it was far too dangerous to share with anyone who wasn't an ally, and for England, his human names tended to change when an ally turned enemy.

Russia asked three more times until changing tactics.

"How about you tell me your name, England. If you tell that to me, then we will be on good terms. Я смогу доверять тебе... and I'll untie you." 

England spent a brief moment wondering why he was tied up, but somehow he didn't need to think... it was like something he already knew, something that was obvious but confusing. This proposal made his head spin with more weariness than before, but he also saw a chance of escape. 

"Yu'll untie me?" He asked, carefully as he could even with the haze. Being free was good... he had to get untied and run away. He had to escape the danger even if he couldn't remember it.

"Just tell me your name."

"Which one?" Hundreds of names flipped on pages upon pages of blurry memories as he focused on his past. The past, he found, was more solid and tangible unlike his current situation. Remembering things in small flashes and wide scaping images of long altered pictures came fluidly.

"Your human name, the one you use as a citizen." 

"Hadda diffren' one when I wasn wessex... wasan Eardwulf for long, loooooong time." That one... it was old, useless, and wasn't tied to anything other than a king who didn't like calling him by his country title. But he gave it because the strong need to lie still gripped him tight even though he couldn't process exactly why.

"Yes, and now?" Russia was getting impatient. England could tell even in his hazy state.

England responded by shaking his head sloppily when he couldn't quite get the right words on his tongue, and then Russia responded with a small sting in his arm. Another needle. He didn't think much this time around as a fresh wave of nausea took over. After that he couldn't even comprehend the pulsating colours in his vision, or the fact that he could feel his heart beating in his head. 

"Now, what is your friend's name?" Russia asked.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-==-=-=-=-=--==-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-

What fool decided a diplomatic trip to Berlin was a good idea? A diplomatic trip with not humans- who were real diplomats- not just a single country- which was novelty in itself- but no, nope, a trip with two countries. Two of the strongest, immortal treats to the USSR. Or at least America was one of the strongest. He hated to think about it, but England was getting weaker. He'd never seen a nation slowly fall away the way England was. His former mentor was almost shrinking, losing physical strength almost as fast as his hold on his empire, and no matter what England said, America knew the truth. The truth was that Germany almost succeeded in toppling the British Empire. Germany had had it an inch away from his finger tips when he screwed up.

Which was why this plan was such a stupid one to begin with. And he knew it had been stupid going in, and despite it all he hadn't said a thing. And he didn't say a thing when they split up. He should have never agreed to split up. He should have just ended this when it started, right when his president suggested he take such a rare opportunity to try and talk to Russia. He hadn't said a thing then, either.

But the splitting up was the dumbest mistake he'd made since this whole ploy kicked off. After that he should have known better. They'd been offered an ungodly amount of vodka when they arrived and both of them were absolutely drunk off their feet when that stupid human came up to them and asked for a private audience with England-- and damnit why did England insist? America thought he was being paranoid when he panicked but the man never came back. He waited an hour, then two, and three. No England ever came back. And now he was in full on fight mode. 

No one touches his family. And he thought he had the power to insure it, but he couldn't do anything about this. There was no single country to wipe off the map and beat the hell out of, and it wasn't like he could find one single guy's house and individually nuke it out of existence. Not to mention the problem of *finding* England first, and in one piece. 

If Russia was behind this- which the bastard probably was- and the bastard had touched his family, European or blood related, God help the commie because America was just about ready to burn up in nuclear hellfire if it meant getting even.

He slammed the door on another vacant room, rushing down the hall to the next. Nothing. Nothing in every damn room. Who the hell set this up?

America didn't want to think of the corpses he left upstairs, but if he found the human responsible he was going to end them just like everyone else in the damned building without a second thought. America wouldn't regret it.

He kicked another door off it's hinges. A horrible crashing shriek of metal assaulted his ears in retaliation which made America wince. He wasn't going to stop, though. It took more than endless hallways and empty buildings to deter him. And if Russia thought this was enough to keep him out, that was his mistake.

America repeatedly kicked and dented doors in, leaving bent foot impressions on doors and door sized impressions on walls before reaching a hall that was different. 

He could feel it. The low hum of energy rolling in waves through the air. Waves that meant a personification was near. Every nation could feel it, few humans could, but this was such a strong wave of energy that America had half a mind to think it was a trap. It had to be Russia setting up a trap or flaunting his power and presence, because England would never let go of his energy like that, England kept a tight lid on all that energy and stayed low profile-- America can't even remember the last time he'd felt England's aura.

But as he got nearer, the loose energy hummed stronger, soon filling the air. It wasn't Russia.

America was going to kill Russia next time he met the psychopath.

He punched the door clean off the rusty metal hinges, bang echoing through the air. He watched it scrape across the ground in satisfaction, but the tingling smug sensation at destroying Russia's stuff vanished. 

His eyes landed on England. Of course it was England. He hadn't expected anyone else. England looked... off. Slumped, limp. Something was very wrong, and with the energy in the air and that glazed over look in that blank gaze, He looked dead. America's heart nearly spazzed at that though. What if Russia had killed him and he was currently regenerating? His thoughts quelled when he reminded himself he could still feel England's energy, meaning England was definitely alive. Just... creepily staring off into space.

America leapt over the bent, deformed door and swiftly made his way to his ally's side, taking his shoulders in his hands and frantically scanning him for damage. 

Nothing. He was just... vacant.

America gave England a shake but he didn't respond.

"The hell?" America mumbled under his breath.

Ok. 

Ok...

This was... not good. Not what he expected but still very not good. He was prepared for blood and broken bones or someone to punch in the face for harming his jerk of an ally, not... whatever the hell this was.

America turned to take in the rest of the scene, finding nothing of comfort. Towels, bottles, cloth, metal instruments, and a few other recognizable items, vaguely familiar from his own brief espionage and extraction training. But he only knew basics... he was trained mainly to be pilot or an ambassador, not a spy. 

America picked a discarded needle off the table with dread. The clear tube was empty. The syringe was pressed all the way to the needle.

His stomach twisted. This was not good. He couldn't put into thought how extremely not good this was. An unidentifiable drug, which did God knows what, had England limp as a corpse. And that didn't answer why. The reason Russia had to do this could be any number of things, and in this state England was a liability for escape-- even humans would feel the energy-like aura England was sending out like a beacon, so hiding was out of the question.

And... America really didn't want to fight his way out of Russia. he might be angry enough to actually succeed, though. 

With a slight exhale, America steeled himself to break the restraints holding England. They tore easily, tearing like paper rather than leather, and England reacted ever so slightly with something akin to a wince. 

America snapped to attention.

"England? You there?" America's brow furrowed at the slight twitch of England's fingers. Then, America lightly shook him again.

England- very slowly- blinked and loosely tilted his head. That unfocused gaze began to sharpen. After, the unrestrained aura dropped its overwhelming potentcy and all America could feel was a slight fizzle in the air.

A small relieved smile tugged his lips, "Hey, can you hear me alright?" He questioned.

"Fu'zy..." 

"Yeah I know, but we gotta get outta here. Think you can stand?"

Nothing happened for a bit. Then, finally, England hesitantly shook his head. America's eyes widened a bit and he frowned. England admitting weakness? Just how 'fuzzy' was his mind?

"That's... fine." America paused, "I need you to stay as undetected as possible, though. I don't want Russia to know we're leaving. Can you do that?"

Another hesitant nod. The aura all but vanished. 

That was good. At least one thing was going somewhat well in this disaster. 

America, confident that things were getting somewhat better, turned and pocketed every bottle on the table before picking England's relatively limp body up. The fact that England didn't protest had him more concerned than he felt he should be. The trek back out of the building was unusually quiet, and America hated the churning feeling in his gut. 

He couldn't help but plan in the silence. He knew that once he got back and met up with someone he could trust, he was going to have one of his scientists analyze the drug and find what had been used. He hoped it wasn't harmful. For Russia's sake and for England's.

**Author's Note:**

> America: Good intentions but destructive and impulsive as heck. 
> 
> Russia: So freaking physically damaged and emotionally isolated that he doesn't understand interacting with people. (Getting America's name and learning about him is his idea of possibly learning how become friends with him.)
> 
> England: Drugged out of his mind but still paranoid.
> 
> ANYHOW! Extra note! I don't remember what any of the Russian in this fic means. A friend of mine, who took some classes and learned some Russian, made those translations. I have no idea what they say and I'm kinda lazy. Maybe I'll throw them on google translate one day, but for now i'ma just... not.


End file.
